The Art of Remembering
by JackFrostGermany
Summary: The fourth of July. A joyous day for some, but a painful day for others.
1. The Room of Memories

_Fireworks. Picnics. Barbeques. Flags. Parties. Alcohol. Fun. FREEDOM._

America grinned to himself as he repeated these thoughts over and over. Ah, the fourth of July. What a beautiful summer day. His thoughts wandered to the day's activities. There would be lots of parties and picnics to attend. Lots of food to eat. Tiny American flags that would be waved around and around to remember that day. But most importantly, the promise of freedom. Ah, yes, the glorious fourth of July.

* * *

_Gah. The fourth of July. What a horrible day. _

The weather was gloomy, much like the feelings of a certain English nation. The normally lonely heavy rain was now accompanied by powerful gusts, fog so thick, that it was hard to even see your knees, and relentlessly pounding hail. The weather was terrible on this festive day, and not just for any reason.

_I bloody hate this day. Why can't he just forget about that day?! I just want __left alone…_

But that was not to be. The proud Englishman looked out at his nation and glowered, cursing the obnoxious American that had made him feel this way.

_That feckin' wanker. Why the heck does he have to include me in this?!_

The Brit finally reached home, sopping wet, from having just walked out of the heavy rain. He slammed the door behind him, locking it in a way that one would have thought that he was trying to run away from something. And he was.

_The tradition continues._

But today was different from most days. Instead of going up to his room to change out of his soaked clothes, England simply went to the kitchen, and swung an arm up to lazily grasp a large bottle of his most prized rum. He padded down the long hallway, paying no attention to anything but the door at the end of the hall. He finally reached it, and yanked open the door.

* * *

He sipped lazily at his wine, surveying the view before him. Paris looked simply glorious (as usual), from the very top of the Eiffel Tower.

_Ah, c'est magnifique! How gorgeous Paris looks from this view! Of course, it is because of me…_

His gaze shifted over to where a group of girls sat, giggling and chatting among themselves.

_Comment ces filles sont belles! How beautiful those girls are! Perhaps they would like to have a chat with me; who wouldn't? After all, I am the nation of-_

A phone buzzed rather obnoxiously, rudely interrupting his thoughts. Looking down at his pockets, he realized it was his own. Curious, the Frenchman flipped open his phone, revealing a stark-white screen, blank except for the small words printed on the screen:

_Reminder:_

_Today is the 4th of July._

Confused, he racked his brain for what he was supposed to remember. Why was the fourth of July so important? And suddenly, it came to him.

_Merde. _

He ran, his legs failing him as he pushed his way through the crowd, desperate to get to his car. Finally, he reached it, and shoved in the ignition key. He drove as fast as he could, ignoring the shocked pedestrians, and the drivers, who screamed profanity after him. He continued at this pace, until he reached a large, rather drab-looking house. He slammed the car door shut, and raced up to the front door, gripping the doorknob so hard, that his fingers turned white. Finding it was locked, France cursed, and kicked the door in.


	2. Suicidal Thoughts

England strode into the room, muttering words that cannot be repeated here, as he tried to fight back the tears that threatened to blur his vision. He crossed his arms, trying to protect himself from...well, himself. But once again, he failed.

_The memories...they keep coming back...screw memories…_

His arm swung out violently, knocking down an entire row of picture frames, albums, and a series of large boxes. He gasped as he heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking, and knelt down to gingerly turn each picture frame over. England paused, and his breath caught in his throat, as he realized that he had broken _that picture._

_That picture. With England and America. Happy. For once._

Tears streamed down his face, as he observed that he had not only broken the frame, but mutilated the picture inside. America was fine, but England now had two identical, large gashes running down from his cheeks to the bottom of his neck. The United Kingdom of Great Britain was now huddled in a corner, sobbing quietly to himself. He was reminiscing in those glory days, the days where his happiness had existed. Those days were gone now, and they would never come back. And he realized this. He grabbed his bottle of rum, and slung it to his mouth. The whole thing was finished in a couple of seconds, a new record, even for him.

_He doesn't need me. He never did. All I was was a burden. _

He hiccuped as the thought chained itself into his mind.

_I'm still a burden, aren't I?  
_

He grasped at the pictures, trying to tell himself otherwise. But every picture said the same; he was, and is, useless.

_Not for long..._

The thought came to him bitterly, and for the first time since the incident, Britain smiled to himself as he began to burn himself out of the pictures.

* * *

_Whereishewhereishewhereishewhereishe?!_

France's mind screamed at him to hurry up, making him push his legs to the point where he thought they would break. His heart was pounding, telling him to stop, to slow down, but France did not. He ran right down to the end of that hallway, right up to _that _door. This one was too thick to break down, and France prayed that Angleterre had failed to lock it this time. His prayers were not answered, however; and the door remained firm and unmoving as France pounded, frantically against it.

* * *

England was standing in front of the mirror, a shard of glass gripped tightly in his left hand.

_I've got to match the picture. It's the only one I have left. Now, left side first._

Using the mutilated picture to guide him, England coaxed the shard of glass over his neck, cutting not very deeply, but not very lightly, either. The left side of his face was beginning to match the picture.

_Crimson is such a beautiful color. Adds a nice...splash of color to this drab house, don't you think?_

_Yes, yes, it __**is **__a beautiful color, now carry on, and do the other side._

The shard positioned itself in England's right hand, and began to drape smoothly across the right side of his neck.

_There we go-_

"ANGLETERRE! ANGLETERRE! OPEN THIS DOOR! OUVRIR! OUVRIR! OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN IT!"

_What is that voice...sounds so familiar...Oh! It must be France! Hold on, I'm almost done…_

England smiled tiredly at the mirror. Perfect. Now, what did that Frenchman want? He trudged over to the door.

_You know, I'm feeling very sleepy...I should take a nap after this._

_Yeah...I'll take a nap...once I open the door…_

He pulled it open, undoing the locks agonizingly slowly. He opened the door, and smiled.

"Oh, hello, France, what do you want?"

And then, promptly passed out.

* * *

France watched in horror as the door swung open, revealing a very bloody Englishman on the verge of passing out.

_MERDE. What did he do to himself?!_

"Oh, hello, France, what do you want?"

The French nation stared in disbelief as the Englishman smiled, tiredly.

_HE'S DYING AND HE'S SMILING?!_

He was snapped back to reality, as he watched the mutilated man topple over, swooping in just in time to cradle his head before it crashed onto the floor.

"A-Angleterre?", the French nation stuttered, his voice failing him.

_Mon dieu! WhatdoIdowhatdoIdoWhatdoIdo?! _

His voice screamed frantically in his mind, pushing him into the verge of screaming.

_Rightrightright. Get help. Call an ambulance!_

His other hand seemed to act on his own, snapping open his cell phone, slipping, and sliding his fingers over the right keys. The Brit's eyes were still blank, and he was unresponsive to anything the Frenchman did.

_Hold on, hold on, hold on, Angleterre, we're almost there. Hold on, they're coming._

* * *

America blinked in disbelief as he looked at the caller ID scrolling across his cell phone.

_France? He usually leaves me alone on this day…Oh well! Everyone loves the hero!_

He flipped open his phone, barking a loud "'Sup!", as he waited to find out just what was _so important_ that it interrupted him in the middle of a particularly interesting beer-drinking contest. It was _almost_ his turn, and his anticipation nearly killed him.

_I'm going to beat everyone, because I'M THE HERO!_

"AMERIQUE! GETTOTHEHOSPITALFASTANGLETERREISDYINGHURRYUP!"

_What is that crazy guy saying?_

"Woah, dude, slow down!", the obnoxious American laughed rather loudly. "You sound like that Brit when he's ranting about his fairies!"

He was a bit surprised when he heard the Frenchman snarl at the other end of the line.

""That Brit" is in the hospital right now, Amerique, you crétin! Hurry up and get over here!"

_W-What? Britain's in the h-hospital?_

The American fumbled with his phone, trying to stop it from falling out of his rigid hands.

_W-WHAT?! He can't be hurt, he's Britain…_

His mind roared at him to hurry up and move his feet, but not before he answered France. "ALRIGHT, I'LL BE THERE RIGHT NOW!", he roared into his phone. The screen cracked as he carelessly tossed his cell phone aside, and fumbled for the keys in his pocket.

_Hold on, Britain, the hero is coming._


	3. No Such Thing as Monophobia

Everything was dark. Everything. England groaned as the metallic taste in his mouth threatened to make him throw up. But there wasn't only the metallic taste in his mouth.

_W-What is this...in my mouth...plastic?!_

The Brit opened his eyes very laboriously, to his extreme surprise.

_Why is it so hard to open my eyes? And...Why can't I move?_

England looked up, seeing this...this...clear plastic thing...apparently coming from his mouth!

_A tube? What for?_

He rolled his head to the left, and all was revealed. He was in a hospital. The stark white of the hospital walls seemed to pop out at him, telling him that he was trapped within these walls. With great difficulty, he turned his head to the right, expecting to see a white-washed door, and perhaps a couple medical machines. But all he saw was blue. A deep, cerulean blue. But they were unclear. Something was covering them. His gaze shifted down, trying to find where the blue came from. His eyes shifted down, and he nearly choked on the tube in his mouth in recognition.

_The stubble on the chin, the purple cloak…France._

_Of course. He came to taunt me. Wait. Why am I here anyways? And…wait a minute…is France…__**crying**__?_

The Brit blinked once, twice, to make sure that the image that he saw before him was real. The normally-stylish Frenchman had disheveled hair, wrinkled clothes, and a somber, tear-stained expression on his face.

_What the heck? Something really serious must have happened…_

But as England opened his mouth to speak, a sharp pain stabbed at his throat, forcing him to close his mouth, and cause tears to gather in his eyes. He gasped at the pain, blinking rapidly to avoid the tears that were sure to come soon.

_G-gah. W-why does it hurt…so bad?_

"A-Angleterre?" The Brit blinked once, twice, to make sure that the image that he saw before him was real. The normally-stylish Frenchman had disheveled hair, wrinkled clothes, and a somber, tear-stained expression on his face.

_What the heck? Something really serious must have happened…_

But as England opened his mouth to speak, a sharp pain stabbed at his throat, forcing him to close his mouth, and cause tears to gather in his eyes. He gasped at the pain, blinking rapidly to avoid the tears that were sure to come soon.

* * *

"A-Angleterre? How are you doing?" France stuttered, his voice catching in his throat. He had noticed the tears pricking at England's eyes, and moved to brush away a strand of hair from his face. He watched as the Englishman opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again, as new tears leaked out from the corners of his eyes. "Don't move, mon ami, you'll only make it worse."

_I'm so sorry, Angleterre. I came too late. If only I had come sooner…_

_You didn't mean to do that to yourself, right?_

_It was only the rum speaking, right?_

_Right?_

_But you've never done this before...I wish you could tell me why you're doing it now._

_Why?_

_Why was everything on the floor?_

_Why were you crying? _

_Why were all of those picture frames you cherished so, broken?_

_Please tell me why._

* * *

America was angry. No, not angry. Fuming.

_Someone had hurt England. Who? Whoever it was, boy, are they in trouble…_

His feet pounded against the white tiles of the hospital ignoring the reprimanding that his brain was giving him for running _such_ a great distance.

_Room 420, room 421, room 422, ah! Room 423!_

He barged into the room, seemingly unaware of the Frenchman's presence, and darted to England's bed.

"BRITAIN! ARE YOU OKAY?!"

The American watched as the Brit slowly opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again when he saw America.

_W-What? Britain doesn't want to see me? Did I do something wrong?_

Assuming that the British man obviously couldn't talk, and was signaling him to come closer, the American moved forward, and took England's hand in his own.

"What happened? Who did this to you?" His voice shook with anger. No matter how grumpy he thought Britain was, America was still the hero, and he had failed to protect him.

But instead of looking at America and smiling at him, as the nation had expected, England's eyes only seemed to squeeze tighter, and he shook his head ever so tightly. The American felt somewhat hurt at this. Why couldn't Britain give a signal, or even look at him?

_What did I do?_

* * *

_That damned frog…helping me in my weak state like that…I bet he wants something back! That wanker!_

The Brit's eyes fluttered open, then closed again as the blinding white lights practically bore out his eyeballs.

_Bloody lights…it's like they __**want **__to make me blind!_

However, in his current "blind" state, England had failed to notice the loud slamming of the door, and the panicked footsteps of a certain American.

"BRITIAN! ARE YOU OKAY?!"

_That voice…why can't he just feckin' leave me alone?! Bloody feck, on the one day that I'm trying to stay as far away from him, he comes to me! _

The Englishman flinched as he felt something warm in his hand. He tried to yank his hand away, but he couldn't seem to move. He grimaced as the _thing _held onto his hand tighter, almost too tight.

_Wait…_

The sudden realization hit him hard. Here he was, in a hospital, because he had tried to drink out the horrible memories of this guy, and here _he _was, tightening his grip on his hand by the second. England wanted to yell, to scream at him to let go, but he couldn't.

_Why? Why on this one day; why can't he just leave me…alone? Why can't they all leave me alone?! I just want to be by myself…I'm only worth that much…_

All England could do was to squeeze his eyes shut, and shake his head to stop the tears from flowing.


End file.
